The Mystery of Mr Y
by ofrcomapany
Summary: Written by oldfashionedromantic with Bohemian Actress: No one knows the story of Erik Fairchild and Christine Daae like the mystery man of Coney Island, the opera ghost, the father and the family man. Now after all these years we find out who really was, "the opera ghost" rated for violence. Modern Day


**Prologue**

**New York 2012, some dark room **

"So where shall we begin?" she asked.

An old man in a mask stood looking down at New York City a younger woman behind him watching the way his shoulders rose and fell with each ragged breath. In his old age he turned to his left shoulder over, at the reporter. His white mask seemed to hum and glow as his now-frail body straightened to its full looming height. He walked over to the young man and swept his hand down in an old-worldly come-hither gesture to the opposite chair. The young lady sat silently, clutching a tape-recorder in her hands like a child with a bag of Halloween goodies.

He said nothing for several moments and then turned to face her fully, a man as terrifying as the legends proclaimed. Why did she care where they began, more importantly what the fuck had she gotten herself into? He took a step toward her and then froze in one place till her olive-green eyes met his brown ones and she saw just what she was dealing with. Her interviewee's face was that of a gentleman who had seen many things and knew far more of this world than the world knew of him. He raised his hand to her shoulder and removed her raincoat chuckling to himself as he draped the brown cloth over the seat.

"What?" she asked.

"This whole scene reminds me of something out of Sherlock Holmes…I half expect my Moriarty to appear at any moment."

"Okay… listen Mister Fairchild; I'm here to write the story of your life."

His brown eyes met hers with a glimmer in them that started her;" Ah but I have told that story many times before."

That was true, there were many biographies of his life on record but none of them were true, at least not completely. He was, She had to admit a fantastic liar, and could spin a tale at the drop of a dime and spun a new one every five years or so. When the other became obsolete and people stared prying again, he would simply make something else up. There were, She recalled a total of fifteen biographies on him in print, all creative and all false. No one knew anything about him save that he had, at one time been very famous for his operatic compositions and a voice that brought whole crowds of people to their feet.

He had told stories of his life before but they were novels more than anything, ranging from romantic stories of true love to stories of down-right pathetic tragedy. Her favorite was the one where he had said that he was the son of gypsies, cruel and disgusting who beat him on a daily basis. Tortured and mutilated, his beautiful face had been ruined by undue punishment and just when he was in utter despair, the beautiful Christine Daaè came to save him with her unconditional love.

Her thoughts were broken by him as he coughed loudly and poured another glass of brandy for himself. After taking a sip he sighed and said in a weary tone, "Ah, you do not trust my word do you?"

She laughed out loud; seriously did the world's most famous liar just ask her to trust him? He looked at her, fixing the dark wig into place and staring at her calmly, deadly calm and knowing as though he were scrutinizing her soul. The idea made her gulp, why those eyes were so deep and soft and yet the voice

She did not lie, "No…" she stopped at the sharpness of his look, "That is to say, you have told so many lies before. What would lead me to believe a word out of your mouth?"

He seemed to nod, "I applaud your caution, but surely you are here to hear what I have to tell you…surely you want a story."

"I'd prefer none-fiction this time thanks." She said, he nodded slowly and sipped his drink.

"But my dear, how do you know what I tell you is a lie, after all I am an actor, making people believe in fantasies is what I do."

She heard that sly trapping note in his voice as if he knew that she thought him ready to tell yet another fiction. He shook his head and walked toward her with a purposeful heaviness to his walk as she shook her head. The masked man gestured for her to stop and looked at her seriously, as if judging whether he could trust her with the truth or whether he should just tell her a wonderful story meant to entertain and beguile. She would believe either one

"You see, everyone loves a story, it is soothing and can take you away from the seriousness of life."

This made no sense to her so she let it pass without another word as she reached for the switch of the lamp above their heads. Just as she was about to flick it on his hand reached out and clapped firmly over hers and he shook his head. It was enough of a signal to tell her that he preferred the room dark… she thought this strange, in fact this whole situation was strange. But hey, that's what she loved about her job, She, Angel Parker, mild mannered reporter for the New York Times was all about the weirdness and craziness of life. She blamed her family ties for that because she was sure if they had been half-way sane she wouldn't be here.

He went on, "Everyone except reporters that is, they twist the truth more than I have ever done. Always making the things that you do not understand seem more horrible than they are, writing stories of people and damn near destroying their life to make the front page of the times."

She did not argue with him, she knew he was right, and she was just as guilty as the rest of them. She was always looking for something crazy or the latest celebrity gossip. But then that was the beauty of her work because she was the only one to know the story of the man who had once been known as the most famous tenor to ever grace the earth. His long fingers, so boney and cold seemed to snake around the glass so tight that his already pale knuckles turned whiter than was humanly healthy.

"Why are you here?" he asked softly.

She could not really answer that one because she did not quite know why, but she supposed it was because she was sick of her hum-drum life. She had spent ten years working as a reporter in this dirty city trying to catch the next schmuck writing fuck-the-world on the wall of the local supermarket. The fact was that she wanted something juicy for a change, something to wow the people of America and maybe even make it to a bookseller's shop for once. But she couldn't tell him this because than he would surely say no and walk away.

"I'm here to write your story, if that's okay?" she asked carefully.

He laughed heartily, a sound that sent tremors up her spine, "Which one?"

"The real one…" she said.

Another laugh, "But my dear they are_ all real…"_

Even she laughed at that one did he think she was that stupid?

He turned serious, "What's so funny?"

"Do you expect me to believe that you are the son of an Irish Duke, and the child of the gypsies and this one takes it, the only bastard child of a nun?" she asked.

"No my dear, I am quite ready to admit that those are false, what I meant was the self-righteous dribble you reporters came up with. They are all true in a way my question is which one of them, the one of the mysterious Mr. Y, or the one of the Angel of Music cursed to love a woman he never fully had… "He smiled sadly, "or the story of the father who was so plagued by his demons that it destroyed his children._"_

The tone in which he delivered his offer was so grave that it sent chills down her spine and she looked again into those eyes she saw something that made her heart ache. In his eyes was something akin to torture and something else like madness. A hint of a heart s tortured and broken that it made her want to weep for this mysterious phantom that no one really knew.

She shook her head, she had heard that the man had gone a bit mental in his old age, heard that he had become so elusive nowadays that people even went as far as to have dubbed him the Phantom of Manhattan. It was said that he had been once called by his wife the angel of music and that he was a freak of nature named Mr. Y by all the reporters who had tried to get one-on-one interviews with him. They would write gossip rags about 'Mister Y, the "Mistery" Man of Coney Island before. But she had heard all of that over and over, now she wanted the truth.

"Perhaps some other time, shall we begin?"

"With what mam'selle?" asked the other in a hushed voice.

The girl shivered at the tone of his tenor that flawless pitch sent still booming and full of that old honeyed tone that had made him so famous. The room was dark; the only light was that of the automobiles blaring off the glass of the small apartment. In the background the sound of the city whirled around them. It was dark otherwise, the air was thick with the smell of dust and mothballs. A flash of light passed the window and his long twisted hand flashed briefly in the passing light. A musician's hand, gnarled with age but with long capable fingers that had stroked many a piano in their time.

"With your biography…" she replied.

He shook his head in an almost pained fashion and toasted her with his glass before placing his hand on the back of his chair. When the light faded he took a gentlemanly sip of the brandy in his hand and smirked at the woman. It seemed the youth was unaccustomed to common social graces of the upper-class. He groaned as he eased himself down into his chair wincing as his aging body popped from arthritis of the knees and limbs. As he made himself comfortable as he sang to himself a made-up tune he had often sung to the children when they were young. He seemed to smile as memories flooded him but then looked back at the reporter who stood in complete awe. He noticed the tenseness of the girl's body and smiled.

"What do you wish to know?" he whispered.

The girl jumped out of her skin and Erik's cocoa eyes held that hint of long-lost amusement which the years had robbed him of. He ran his fingers through his snowy hair and took the recorder from the woman. The old man set it before him and sighed as he placed his hand over the other's with a weary look in his eyes that had at one time broken the heart of the woman he loved. Erik clicked it on and waited for three seconds for it to wind into place. He then took a deep breath and the smoothness of his voice came through to her in a distracted hum.

"First of all, why tell me of all people." She said, "And why now after all these years?"

"My dear, you needn't be so cautious I do not mean to lie to you."

"Oh?" she asked, "But why tell the truth now after all this time?"

"I am old now my dear, I do not intend to live forever, and it is time someone knew the truth."

"Uh-huh," she said skeptically, "I see."

He smirked at the girl and leaned lazily back in his chair with a leisurely sip of his drink, cool like one of the jets from West Side Story. She admired the cool way he was so gentle and powerful like a well-aged jungle-cat, wise and old with a gentleman's grace, it was strange that a man so often persecuted as a monster could act like a nobleman. But the real mystery was the sad cocoa brown eyes so strong with smoldering secrecy. His horrible skeletal fingers tightly curling around his brandy like something out of a horror novel.

His deep voice seemed to rumble as he let out a thoughtful hum as if wondering where to begin and when he looked at her again there was a stony glint in his eyes. He reached across the table and took her recorder from her placing it between them. She had never seen anything more intriguing than this man, never been more curious. When he spoke next it was with a hypnotic tone as the tape-recorded clicked and buzzed into focus…

"October 31st 2012, the following account is the true story of Erik Fairchild, Mr. Y, and the opera ghost."


End file.
